I’m sitting at Gate 9 at Bradley International Airport in Connecticut, waiting to board a 6:05 p.m. plane to Dublin. The seats are filling fast. Uh oh. Does that mean some poor schmuck is going to get wedged between me and my husband? He likes the window. I like the aisle. (Seventy-year-old bladder. Two kids.) I’m catching snippets of conversation, laced with Irish accents. Looking at the faces. Guessing. That one must be Irish. Nope, not that one.
I watch a portly older lady with obviously dyed jet-black hair approach the counter and speak to the agent. What is she asking? She seems so animated. Then it occurred to me: What would Scripty (my AI pal) come up with if this woman was a modern-day version of Catherine, the protagonist in my upcoming book, Countess of Cons: The Story of a Gilded Age Grifter?
I pulled out my phone: 5:09. We weren’t due to start boarding for 11 minutes—plenty of time!
I fed the prompt to ChatGPT: Write a story about a modern Catherine in 2025. Write such a story about Catherine who is trying to convince the agent to upgrade her seat so she can fit her generous body into the seat. Plus she wants free liquor.
Full disclosure: Scripty and I have been collaborating on Catherine’s story for some time now, so it’s pretty familiar with her … um … let’s say, unique personality.
Scripty (ChatGPT) said:
Here’s a little modern-day Catherine scene spun out of your airport-gate vignette:
Catherine adjusted the strap of her oversized handbag, its patent leather creaking in protest, and waddled up to the Aer Lingus counter as though the linoleum were her private runway. Her hair—dyed jet black with a gloss no natural strand had ever achieved—framed a face that dared anyone to tell her no.
The agent smiled politely. “Boarding soon, ma’am. May I see your—”
“Of course you may, darling,” Catherine interrupted, sliding her passport across as if presenting a tip. “But what I really need is a seat that fits a woman of my… regal proportions.” She spread her arms wide enough to demonstrate, nearly clipping the briefcase of a businessman behind her. “You can’t honestly expect me to wedge myself into those stingy little coach chairs. I’d suffocate. And if I suffocate, I promise you’ll have the papers on you by morning.”
The agent blinked, unsure whether to laugh or call security. Catherine leaned in, conspiratorial.
“Now, if you could kindly move me up to business class, I’d be ever so grateful. Think of it as an act of international goodwill. Besides—” her voice dropped to a whisper—“I need proper space for my legs. And let’s not even speak of the free liquor. A woman has her needs.”
The businessman snorted behind her. Catherine turned, eyebrow arched. “What? You think Aer Lingus wants the headlines reading ‘American Grand Dame Denied Gin at 30,000 Feet’?”
The agent cleared her throat, fingers poised over the keyboard, weighing the trouble of refusing against the cost of one upgraded seat. Catherine, sensing victory, twisted the gaudy rhinestone on her finger like a poker player shuffling chips.
(At this point Scripty offered to carry the story on-board. I said, “Oh sure. I’m bored.”}
By the time the wheels left the ground, Catherine was nestled into business class like a cat who’d claimed the warmest spot by the fire. Her handbag, stuffed with half a pharmacy’s worth of lotions and snacks, occupied its own seatbelt.
“Champagne, madam?” the flight attendant asked, leaning politely.
Catherine plucked the flute from the tray with the air of a queen reclaiming a crown. “Finally, a proper welcome. Keep them coming, darling. Flying without bubbles is simply public transit in the sky.”
Two glasses later, she had already charmed her rowmate, a weary tech consultant from Boston, into revealing not only his salary but the fact that he’d forgotten his wife’s birthday last week. Catherine shook her head, tragic. “And you think a new Apple Watch will save your marriage? Sweetheart, what she wants is an emerald necklace. Trust me.”
Midway across the Atlantic, Catherine rang the call button with the impatience of a duchess summoning a footman. “Gin and tonic. And don’t be shy with the gin.”
The attendant hesitated. “You’ve already—”
Catherine held up a manicured finger. “You listen here, my dear. I am a nervous flyer. If you deny me the tools required to calm my fragile constitution, and this plane hits a patch of turbulence, I’ll faint dead away. Right in the aisle. Do you want to be the one in the Irish Times tomorrow for depriving an American lady her medicinal gin?”
The attendant sighed and retreated. Catherine winked at her seatmate, who was scribbling notes on his napkin.
“Always negotiate from a position of inevitability,” she confided. “They’d rather pour than risk a spectacle.”
When the captain announced descent into Dublin, Catherine smoothed her skirt—not that it helped—and began plotting her next maneuver: slipping into the priority customs line. After all, she reasoned, what was the point of carrying herself like royalty if one didn’t also skip the queue?
(Scripty then asked if I wanted a scene of Catherine at Irish customs, saying: I can imagine her trying to convince the officer that her duty-free haul is purely “for charitable purposes.” I couldn’t resist. Plus it was only 5:15.)
The arrivals hall at Dublin Airport gleamed with fluorescent indifference. Passengers shuffled forward with weary obedience, passports clutched like talismans. Catherine, however, strutted as if she’d been personally invited by the Taoiseach.
Her carry-on rattled ominously with clinking bottles. A duty-free bag swung from her arm, stuffed to bursting with gin, whiskey, and a suspicious number of Toblerones. She rolled her eyes at the sign overhead: Nothing to Declare.
“Ha. As if,” she muttered, steering herself confidently into the priority lane.
The customs officer, a young man with freckles and the patience of a saint, raised an eyebrow. “Madam, may I ask the purpose of your visit to Ireland?”
Catherine leaned over the counter, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. “Philanthropy.”
“Philanthropy?”
“Yes. This gin—” she tapped the bulging bag—“is for the benefit of lonely widows. The whiskey? For hardworking priests who, I assure you, deserve a stiff one after their sermons. And the chocolate? Purely medicinal.”
The officer stared.
“Of course,” she went on, “if you insist on charging me duty, I shall be forced to return it all immediately to the shop, where it will surely go to waste. And then you’ll have the guilt of knowing you deprived Irish widows of their evening comfort. Can you live with that, son?”
The young man hesitated, lips twitching toward a smile. Finally, he stamped her passport with a decisive thud.
Welcome to Ireland, Mrs…?”
Catherine flashed her boarding pass, finger conveniently covering the name. “Countess,” she corrected smoothly. “Just Countess.”
With that, she swept past the line, bags rattling like spoils of war, already plotting which hotel bar she’d “grace” first.
At that point, it was close to boarding time, so I had to decline Scripty’s offer to keep Catherine’s 2025 escapade rolling into Dublin city proper. I skimmed the story quickly as I watched people queuing up to board. I think I giggled out loud. Scripty captured Catherine pretty well.
My only criticisms: it should have been a diamond, not a rhinestone ring. And what (or who) the heck is the Taoiseach? I guess I’ll have to wait for the answer. I’m not paying €13.49 to get internet at 33,000 feet!
Disclaimer: This story and the accompanying illustration were created by ChatGPT 5. But the commentary before and after, and the concept, were 100% human-inspired!
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